


Never Again

by subtextual_silver_linings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confessions, HAWT STUFF, His Last Vow, Intensity, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtextual_silver_linings/pseuds/subtextual_silver_linings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Months after the events of His Last Vow, John finds out about what would have been Sherlock's certain death had he gone on the abandoned mission to Eastern Europe. Struggling to come to terms with it all, he forces himself to confront Sherlock.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Rated 'M' for sexual content. Reviews, as ever, are appreciated!</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrunetteBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteBookworm/gifts).



> **A/N: A dedication to the beautiful _brunettebookworm_ \- you deserve ALL the happiness. I hope this fic gives you even the tiniest glimpse of it.**
> 
> **To everyone else who may read... YEAH. I WROTE SOMETHING ELSE. I hope you enjoy it! xD COMMENTS ARE ADORED AND LOVED AND OH MY GODDDD I JUST LOVE YOU GUYS WAY TOO MUCH TO BE HEALTHY!!!!**

**Never** **Again**

In the end, John wonders if he should even be surprised.

To be fair to Mycroft, it wasn't exactly his fault for springing it on John like he did; the eldest Holmes brother clearly had no idea that John was so hopelessly ignorant to the reality of the situation, both now and as it had happened. His words had been so simple, so very matter-of-fact that it was as plain as day to John that the situation as it had been was now considered common knowledge, something that – if not actually already known – should at least have been assumed.

"That my brother was on his way to a six-month undercover operation that was certain to end in death is very telling, wouldn't you say? The lengths he would go to in order to protect you and your family… well. I'm not sure I'll ever understand it, John, but then Sherlock has always been one to glorify in the element of surprise, don't you think?"

And so that had been the moment. The moment that John had realised what Sherlock had done and the consequences he had been prepared to face in retaliation.

For hours after the revelation, John found himself unable to grasp the concept; the mere idea that there was a human being on this earth selfless enough to not only kill a man to protect his best friend and his wife (who none-too-recently had almost been his murderer) but also willing to face certain death in order to pay for his actions was rather far beyond his understanding. The fact that this selfless man was _Sherlock_ … well. That stretched it beyond all manner of comprehension. Naturally this lack of comprehension led John to find himself within a drinking establishment with no thought in his head other than the resounding memory of the words, endless words that had not been spoken and perhaps should have been; as he knocked back his third whiskey he discovered that lying underneath the disbelief was a steady flow of frustration, perhaps strong enough to be promoted to anger if he would let himself drink a fourth, and that the anger he was feeling would no doubt catapult into something far more explosive and life-altering should he continue to let it fester.

So, after the aforementioned fourth and a deeply unwise fifth, John decided that in this case the best thing to do would be to simply… let it go.

Which did not explain how he found himself twenty minutes later slipping his key into the lock of 221B and pulling himself up the creaking staircase at 10:34pm at night.

The first thing that John sees upon entering the flat is that Sherlock is leaning over his music stand, a pencil grasped between the fingers of his right hand and his violin in his left; he's composing, composing when most people are settling into their beds and of course Sherlock wouldn't be sleeping now, of course he would be awake precisely when John needs him to be and is now glancing across the room and straightening his spine with that wonderfully arrogant chin-tilt as if to say:

_And, so?_

And so John takes a few steps into the room, stopping like he's been punched in the chest and then turning on his heel to face the wall; it won't do to let his thoughts fly from his lips now, not so suddenly, not when he hasn't quite found the words yet and behind them all is a burning rage that his friend, his best friend could not trust him _yet again_ with the truth of a situation that would have led to John losing him _yet again_ – it's understandable, surely, that he cannot quite pull the sentences together. Not that Sherlock understands this, not that he has any idea whatsoever of why John is here and why the shorter man is currently unable to look in his direction without wanting to simultaneously stride across the room to connect his fist with the sharp jaw tilting upwards and, worse, break down completely. Observant though the genius might be, he cannot read the thoughts surging through John's head and certainly cannot see through skin and bone and muscle to see what truly lies beneath the red-hot anger spreading like a cancer through his trembling limbs.

John breathes in deeply, allowing himself one more moment of ignorance before the fall.

He turns, the room a blur of low-lighting and ice-blue intensity. His lips separate and the words escape without a moment to spare:

"How could you not tell me?"

And Sherlock's eyes flicker; John is no observational genius by any standards but he can see from even the great distance between them that there is something akin to fear there, wrapped and bound tight with the familiar glimmer of arrogance and the blisteringly open bewilderment that he even cannot begin to unwind – not that John cares, not that John gives _one damn_ what Sherlock is feeling at that moment and instead can only focus on the heat within his chest and the tingling in his fingers as he takes one more step towards his lying bastard of a best friend –

"You… _stood there_ , Sherlock. You stood there on that godforsaken stretch of tarmac and you _looked me in the eye_ …" He breaks off, a hurried drag of air into his lungs as he gives himself a fragment of a moment to pull himself together. "I didn't ask you to kill Magnussen. I didn't even ask you for help. There was no hint of it, not a thread of possibility in any of our conversations up to that point where I even _insinuated_ that you should go further than confronting him, and yet you took that gun from my coat pocket and you _shot him in the head_."

Sherlock is still holding the violin, his body stiff and still and silent as he lets the words pour out without even an attempt to calm John down; if he is surprised that John has come here at this time of the night to simply berate him for his reckless actions then it doesn't show. His face is impassive, indifferent, the line between sociopath and friend clearly drawn, yet even in John's overwhelmed state he knows that it is merely a defence mechanism. It cannot be that John's words are falling upon deaf ears. Sherlock has proven himself in recent months that he is so much more human than he ever was before his fall from St. Barts, and that in itself is enough to push John further, to push him into speaking the words burning a hole in his throat.

"But, fine. You thought it was necessary. You thought it was necessary to kill a man to ensure mine and Mary's safety and security. I _am_ grateful. You know that. We've been over that more than once."

Still Sherlock doesn't move. John is beginning to wonder if he's even aware of the situation.

He plows on regardless. "But it's not just about that anymore, is it? _How_ , Sherlock… how could you not… _tell me_?"

And there it is: the blossoming of understanding, the light of recognition behind Sherlock's steady gaze and the temporary flicker of a gaze fleeing from his before returning with none of the arrogance and all of the fear. And John finds that he likes that. He likes that Sherlock is afraid. He likes that he is not the only one.

"A suicide mission."

The chin-tilt; the tightening of fingers around the slender neck of the violin.

"You were going on an undercover mission to the arse-end of Europe and yet somehow you couldn't find it within your unimaginably intelligent head to tell me?" John is smiling, he is smiling but he is not happy. He is not enjoying this. It is not even slightly funny. "Because we had that moment, Sherlock. In front of that plane. You sent your brother away and you invited me into your little semi-circle of personal space and _you could have told me_. You could have just told me, 'John, I'm going on this mission as a punishment and it will almost definitely lead to my certain de-'"

His voice breaks again and he has to look away from the fixed stare layered so intently on his; he doesn't want to see the pain, the denial, the desperation. He doesn't want to see it from Sherlock, if only to avoid the reality of those very same things rotting away within his own chest like the blunt end of a knife left to stagnate for months. He cannot face Sherlock because to face Sherlock would be to accept that he has his own truths to face, truths that he has denied for as long as he can remember.

John doesn't want to remember.

He directs the words to the floor, though he can hear the tremble in his voice and he is well aware that Sherlock will not miss it. "How you could possibly think that… _that_ … is okay… is beyond me. After last time. After Barts." And he finds himself looking up again, meeting a gaze that is certainly the rawest thing that John Watson has ever seen in his life and is so agonising to witness that John can hardly believe either of them are still standing. "Can you please, just for a moment – one moment, Sherlock, you can give me that much – imagine if I had found this out… _afterwards_? No, don't say anything -" he reaches out his hand, stopping whatever words are about to tumble from Sherlock's parted lips, " – just imagine that for me, would you? How it would feel for me to know that you went to your death because of me, because of Mary -"

"John -"

His name is like a whip against bare flesh but he won't allow it, he cannot allow it when he is pouring out his heart and leaving it on the ground to be stepped upon – "I want you to _think_ about it, don't speak, don't say a bloody word! _Think about it_ and _think about what it would do to me_. Do that for me. Please."

John's hand is still stretched out toward Sherlock and for one insane moment he thinks that perhaps Sherlock will take it, because the taller man takes one step, two steps, three steps in his direction but, no, he stops and hesitates between the two chairs because he is doing exactly as John asked and is thinking about it: John doesn't need to be a mind-reader to see that. The flash of agony, the pain that locks at Sherlock's knees and should have sent him falling to the floor but naturally he is still standing with his own large, slender hand twitching at his side as if to reach out; the imagining within Sherlock's head is as clear as it is in John's and – even more than when he had seen Sherlock's fear – John is glad to see the pain. He is glad to see that Sherlock is suffering. Let him see it, feel it, hate it. Let him _understand_.

If John had been breaking before, he was certainly broken now. "You would have died and I would have known, _for the second time_ , that you did it for my sake. And if the first time didn't kill me, Sherlock… it would have this time. For sure. There is not a doubt in my mind -" his own chin tilts up in an gesture so similar to Sherlock's familiar action, " – in the outcome for us both. I would not have even _tried_ to make it through."

Sherlock lowers the violin, lets it drop on the chair behind him: John knows what is coming, he knows that Sherlock will approach him now with a calming word, perhaps not sensitively spoken but utterly well-meaning… and he doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want Sherlock in his space. He doesn't want Sherlock to say another damned word.

Yet he watches as Sherlock takes five tentative steps in his direction, his name spilling once more from brandishing lips. "John."

"Just one more thing, Sherlock, one more thing I need you to do for me."

Their eyes are locked: he has to say it. The words are like fire in his throat.

"Stop… dying… for me."

They are both surprised, even John who had known what he was about to ask. Yet he has to say it again.

"Just stop it. Stop dying for me. _Stop_ thinking that you have to die in order to secure my happiness, stop putting yourself in these situations where my life is more important than yours, just… _stop this_! Are you listening to me? Are you even aware of how serious I am?" John takes the step this time, no hesitation required, instinctual as muscles shifted and his foot moved forward. "Stop it, stop this, stop thinking that you care more about me than I do for you -"

It wasn't intentional, the words, he had not meant to say them but they had slipped out like embers needing air and, in this case, Sherlock was the oxygen: his words were nothing more than potential and they could only be real and true and blazing if Sherlock was willing to breathe life into them and make them more than just _sentiment_ , more than just pointless, desperate pleas for Sherlock to _finally_ understand and to realise that it was never a case of not knowing and all just a simple desire to not allow things to change… but there was always change, and John was still waiting, John was still perched on the edge of his own admission and devastatingly sure that he would be left to collapse in the wake of it –

Sherlock was suddenly crossing the last few metres and freezing inches from John, his hands stopping short from grabbing him as he finally found the opportunity to speak just a few, short, simple words:

"I could live a thousand lifetimes, John Watson, and there would not be a single one not worth giving up for you."

"So stop giving up and just _live_ for me, then!"

And then John forgot that he had ever had a single breath of resolve left in his body, because resolve was not important when the heat was still trapped in his chest but it had become something different entirely; he did not need to think of how or why as he grabbed Sherlock by the front of his shirt and wheeled him around, backing the man up until the dark, curly head hit the front door and John was leaning up to press his lips, hard and unforgiving, against the perfect bow that he had stared at more in the last few years than he was willing to admit. Resolve was a thing of the past as he pushed his solid body against the lithe, warm, unresisting form of his best friend and his lips moved fervently, desperately, heatedly in harmonising tandem to Sherlock's slower, sweeter, inexperienced rhythm; there was no real flow to his movements as his palms dragged over the detective's stomach and emitted from the taller man a deep groan in the back of a pale, white throat that he absolutely _had_ to taste, and so he did, his lips tearing away and brushing over the skin like wildfire and bringing about within him a sense of righteousness, a pulse of desire and a denial that there was anything wrong with this picture, nothing wrong whatsoever in finding his hands ceaselessly working at Sherlock's belt buckle as his own hips jerked ruthlessly to find the friction he so ardently needed and not being disappointed with the hiss of breath escaping from perfect lips and his own coarse grunt at the glorious sensation he had created –

" _John…"_

It was perfect, perfection, the large hands reaching up to drag his face back to Sherlock's now utterly unyielding kiss as his own fingers mercilessly prised the gaping belt from its prison and half-pulled it from its holdings; he let it clatter against the door, not caring even a little that the noises might find their way downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, pulling at Sherlock's lower lip with his teeth whilst his hands gave up trying to undo the zipper and instead shifted down to cup the overwhelming heat and hardness of Sherlock's arousal, grinding his own erection against the shape of it and letting a primal groan slip into the limited space between them as he did it again, again, his tongue winding its way into Sherlock's suddenly parted lips and tasting the scintillating combination of tea, knowledge and regret for not having done this sooner. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock and brushed his thumb over a spot that left the man rolling out a low keen, the lips that were surely now bruised from their passion forming his name beneath their ruthless kisses and the tell-tale arch of a spine as Sherlock moved himself to meet John's unrelenting fingers touching, stroking, pulling them both into a spiral they'd been gravitating towards for far too long –

" _Sherlock…"_

There was no time for romance, for sentiment, for words; just names and touches and tension. He could not stop himself from moving against his own hand, the very hand gripping Sherlock and taunting, twisting, John grinding against his best friend to a mix of sighs and gasps and moans that sounded like music in a room that had been silent of any lasting melodies since the day Sherlock had first left – the heat was consuming, the pleasure building, gasps replaced by groans and groans replaced by moans until those moans became the breathless cries of their names upon each other's lips – _Sherlock! John… Sherlock, god –_ and then it was a pulsing rage of bliss and pleasure and dying gasps into the dimly lit room where they clutched at each other as if they could not stand alone and the shudders were met with grasping hands and a dangerous need to not let go.

To never let go.

"Sherlock…"

"John."

"Sherlock, please don't leave me… please don't leave me again, I can't… I couldn't…"

Trembling hands reaching to hold him steady, cupping the curve of his head and bringing it to rest against a rapidly rising and falling chest with a tenderness that scared John, even as he leaned his hot cheek against Sherlock's skin and shut his glittering eyes. "Never again, John. I won't leave you. I'm here, I'll be here."

There would be a time for questions, for confessions.

Later.


End file.
